Tag: literature

#PoeticAnswers 84 – Why Is 42 The Meaning of Life, the Universe, and Everything?

Physicists and philosophers
Have pondered the expanse of
Life, the universe, and everything.
They have been searching for an answer like
Addicts about to crack while hunting for
An honest needle in a haystack of politics,
Like the answer is a holy grail or
A point on a map that no one ever drew.
And then when a man said it was 42,
They didn’t know if it was the real answer
Or a note of latitude or longitude,

So instead of trying to take it further
They accepted it like
A man broken by a barrage of religion
As it battered down his door accepting
It’s doctrine as his lord and saviour.
Stooping and not stopping to
Question truth and reality until
It was too late.

But yesterday’s later is today’s now,
And we’ve began asking questions of
Why and how and when and why not,
Questioning the world and what we’ve got,
Acting like the status quo was just a band
And nothing more and now we’ve got
A lot more to stand for.
Like the truth.

So we asked and stripped down forty-two
With interrogation and maths,
Breaking it down into God Particles and
Jesus Lizards and quantum paths through
Space and time and time again,
Seeing what we want to see and
Finding we’re wrong and we’re right.
The constants are constantly changing
And the more we break life down,
We discover that maybe
Life isn’t made, it’s what we make it
Or life isn’t worth it at all.

But the truth is hidden behind a wall
Of uncertainty and fear and
We won’t look behind it because
Maybe it wont be the answer we’re looking for.
So I’ll move to believe in the great fourty-two,
And I won’t ask questions anymore.

Question from Hanne V.B. from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 82 – Are You A Poet?

I know it seems hard to believe
That I wear my heart and soul on my sleeve
And my vocal chords and
Stand up in front of my fellow humans
And regale them with poetic tales
And awful rhymes about
My time on this earth.

Because I don’t fill the traditional mould,
I’m not young enough to be fresh on the scene
And I’m not old enough to be established
And I’m not clean shaven enough
Or too beardy to seem as wordy
As I try to be.

And I don’t have a degree in English
From a top university like Edinburgh or Cambridge,
I went to a uni out of sight and mind
And studied sound and lighting design
So I understand the quiet rage
That some people have when I step on the stage because
I spent years trying to hide from it.

And I don’t have a beret
Or skinny fit jeans
Or a memory strong enough
To remember my own poems and
It feels like I’m in a dream because
After this I have to go back to the
Corporate machine and

I don’t have books of Wordsworth or
Shakespeare and I don’t write every day and
It gives me the fear that I’m a fraud and
All of this will disappear like
Chalk on a pavement or rational thoughts into a beer so
I’ll take this neuroticism and use it to
Justify all my actions and make this seem real, so

Yes I am a poet because
I’ve got crippling depression and
And a a tormented childhood
And a mental state that barely exists
And I’m not afraid to show it and
That makes me a troubled artist.
So yes, I am a poet.
But I’m not sure I know it yet.

Question comes from a work colleague who didn’t realise what I do as a sideline.

#PoeticAnswers 54 – How’s The Poetry Challenge Going?

It’s like climbing a mountain of paper,
Or more appropriately, a mountain range
Because there’s a whole range of topics
But they all feel the same and I’m
Trudging through these snow drafts and
Getting colder in an uphill struggle because
I’m never peaking or reaching the
Tops of my potential because it’s a
Pinball tabletop plateau. That’s to say,
It’s feels like I’m falling flat on an incline and
Bouncing around ideas but nonetheless
Doing the same things over and over again.
I’m becoming snowblind and I
Can’t see the line between disillusion and mirage
And when it looks like I’m making tracks
I’m not smiling it’s just my face
Beginning to crack from the pressure and
Altitude and magnitude of the situation.
I’m seeing the same metaphors and visions
Dressed in different expositions but I know
They’re the same. It’s just repetition
Of ideas and images because I left
My originality behind twenty days ago
Because it ran out and I couldn’t carry
The excess weight of the emptiness around
And sometimes it feels like
I’m not even on the mountain anymore
Because I feel buried, like I’m underground,
Like I’m in hell like Persephone,
Five months after the kidnap.
Almost giving up on her
Fruitless endeavours and tired of
Repeating herself over and over.
Just waiting out for a
Bright new day and waiting for
The sun to come out and melt
All the misery away and
Finally manage to make and feel something
New.

Today’s question comes from a chat with a flyerer on the Royal Mile who was interested in what I do.

#PoeticAnswers 44 – Do You Really Think Writing Poetry Can Change The World?

One pen can change a piece of paper.
It’s style may seem insignificant,
But every stroke, every line, every word,
Was put there for a reason.

One person can change a mind,
Planting words and thoughts like seeds,
Which grow into flowers of awareness
That people take the time to notice.

One poem can change an audience,
Maybe not everyone and maybe not all at once,
But there’s a collective ear and a collective thought
As this information is absorbed .

I can talk about the things we try not to,
From feminism to religion
To rape culture and xenophobia
And I have the right to.
But that means I have a responsibility,
A responsibility to let you know that
These things are not okay,
And I might not be the catalyst
But I can be the alchemist,
The herald, and psychiatrist
Experimenting, preaching, advising
On how change the world.

I never said it would happen overnight,
I never said I would do it on my own,
So join me and bust a rhyme, take the time
To write your heart and mind out and then
Plaster your presence on the streets and on the internet.

Take your slam poetry,
Make it battering ram poetry ,
A poetry crash, poetry smashing
Injustice and stigma.
Like a thousand fists in the face of adversity,

Make a difference,
Make ripples in oceans of deep thought
Until you have enough friends and force to
Make a tidal wave of revolution to crash down on
Those who do not seek to address opression.

Take your prose, haikus and sonnets
Stand up and use words as weapons
Because ten thousand voices
Reciting ten thousand poems
Could change the world.

Question from Michael Clark from Facebook

#PoeticAnswers 43 – How Did You Discover Amanda Palmer?

This romance happened by chance,
A brief introduction in a theatre class,

We were working on a production of
“A Midsummer Night’s Dream”,
Which was slowly turning into a nightmare
Due to the director’s tendency to be laissez-faire
And the actors didn’t seem to care
As actors tend to do.

My friend and ally,
Let’s call her Lucy because,
Well, that was her name.
She played Puck and Lysander
Spoke with virtue and candour
And she was not down with this chaos-

But that’s another story,
I might tell that one later-

But we clicked and connected,
Our personalities blended,
I was Oberon to her Puck,
Although I wish I had the luck
To be Hermia to her Lysander,
I really should have asked her-

Sorry I got distracted,
But you see, this girl impacted
My life in such a way during this
Awful, awful play,
And she introduced me to the sound
Of the Queen of the Boston underground.

(You’re welcome to complain,
But I just needed a rhyme).

My eyes were opened to beauty and truth
After awkwardly being sent “Delilah” by Bluetooth,
Then ‘A is for Accident’ and then ‘Yes Virginia’
Starting with the songs that were nearly vanilla,
Before ascending to madness with ‘Missed Me’ and ‘Backstabber’
All thanks this bodacious, genderfluid Lysander.

And though we’ve drifted apart, I still have Amanda.
She’s a constant, vibrant, talented reminder
Of the past and a force saying things will be better
Forming groups on Facebook, providing a shelter
For the outcasts and artists, the mad and fantastic
From across the Pacific, South Seas and Atlantic.

If these rhymes have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended:

I’ve got this girl, Shakespeare and you to blame,
For all this support and love and I have no shame
When I commit these awful crimes of rhyme.
So darling, if you have the time,
Give me your hands, if we be friends,
And Amanda shall restore amends.

Question from Delaney A.

#PoeticAnswers 21 – Why Do I Buy Books Faster Than I Can Read Them?

In my room,
I have a portal to another world
And a solar system on my shelf.
A personal Eden
Built of recycled trees
And knowledge devoid of sin.

From whirlwind romances
To hideous creatures,
From nightmareish circuses
To heavenly prisons,
I have scoured, sought and salvaged
To create the greatest collection of all.

I am the Tolkein dragon of today,
But I don’t wear my leather-bound armour
And my treasure isn’t made of gold.
A modern day book-wyrm,
Fiercely protective and inherently selfish
When it comes to my “babies”.

They are more than just trophies,
They don’t just hang on my wall
Like a perverse, forgotten decoration.
Despite the landscape of spines
And the paperback mountains that litter the floor
I do pick up my portable adventures to the unknown.

I have dared to cross Charybdis,
And traversed the mountains of Transylvania,
I have sought sanctuary in the halls of Notre-Dame,
And battled basilisks and defeated death.
Stared down demon clowns and walked into the wild,
And despite the fear and danger, I always want more.

My vast wealth is now only measurable
In Penguin Classics and First Editions.
My desire for creativity without being creative
Has resulted in always wanting more,
A prison with bars made of pages,
A literal literary addiction.

So my wings, claws and eyes
Are always open wide,
Hunting for the next treasure
For my private and precious collection.
My hunger is ravenous, my thirst is unquenched.
No bookshop is safe.

Question from Audrey J. from Facebook